I hunt for objects with ghosts. A 200-year-old Thanjavur painting, its gold leaf flickering like a half-remembered dream. A tribal bell that still carries the echo of goat herds on forgotten hills. These aren’t accessories—they’re heirlooms of lives untold, waiting to twine with yours. I’ll crawl through crowded antique markets, haggle with tattooed nomads, or wait three monsoons for a potter to fire the ‘imperfect’ urn that’s actually perfect. Your home shouldn’t match a magazine; it should feel like a cabinet of curiosities, where every piece leans in to whisper, ‘Remember me?’